


The Four Horsemen

by thegirlgrey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Four Horsemen, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8645095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlgrey/pseuds/thegirlgrey
Summary: What most people do not understand is that Death, Death loves humanity. His counterparts will die without the nuisances of man. He will lose the lives he created for the very few he deemed worthy, his family, his loved ones. (And the mere thought of the light of War’s eyes going out, extinguished forever even to him, makes Death’s heart tremble and ache.)He will not see it snuffed out.“Let’s begin.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has sat in my "To Finish" folder for ages. I figured I'd post it if only to mourn the loss of what Teen Wolf could have been.

You see, what no one really understands is that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are not the ones bringing forth the end of the world.

Oh, no.

Man is the harbinger of destruction; of the earth and of themselves.

The Horsemen are just a byproduct. They are the keepers. They watch over the world. They feed on man’s greed and illness, his apathy and hate. Truly, the Apocalypse is not written in stone or to be found in some text to be decoded. The end of the world is present in every second of every life. The Apocalypse is supposed to happen at the moment when man riddles the land with blood and waste and toxic fumes.

But… to end the world and bring forth the Apocalypse means that Death will be alone again.

You see, Death was before life. Death went into making life, Death is the ultimate end of life, and Death will outlast life. He is unyielding and unforgiving and unavoidable.

But Death is not without a heart.

Death destroys, yes. But he also _creates_.

* * *

War was a man with honor and strength and heart who fought even with his dying breath. He was made of blood and bone, but a wildness flowed in his veins. He was beautiful. Oh, was he beautiful. Statues could not be carved for their lack of accurate representation of his sheer glory. And glorious was he, bathed in crimson blood and dark rich earth. Body of muscle and sinew. Mind of strategy and wisdom. Eyes alight of hazel fires, and when the sun hit them, they flared into the deepest evergreen. Death was transfixed.

Death did not reap him. No, he was the very first soul that Death offered something more. Death offered him a hand to rise from the bloodied ground anew.

From this Spartan’s last sputtering heartbeat rose an immortal whose name was War.

* * *

Famine was born in the wild woods of Britain before it was named such. She was a lithe, clever Brigante’s huntress. She could see what others could not, could read the land and rivers and stars as others never would. She knew how to speak to the earth and her familiars and to mortals and their kin. She was grace personified and as deadly as mother earth could make her. She was renowned in her village.

Yet when the rivers began to dry up, when the venison and rabbits and sheep started to sicken, when the fields and forest keened on the verge of death, she was one that was ripped apart by the loss. Her heart was that of the root and soil and blood of the earth. Her grief was that of the too still, too quiet forests.

Death was there when she offered her heart to the gods, to the mother, and to the moon. She offered her very soul to spare not just her village but to spare the place where she was taught and nourished. She lay on the cold, stone altar with the torches’ glow turning her moon white skin warm and golden, her midnight locks auburn and ochre.

She welcomed the knife that slipped between her ribs with a smile sharper than the blade itself.

She took the hand Death outstretched to her and rose the master of the very thing that had taken so much that she had loved: Famine.

* * *

Death has been called many things, but none can say he had no heart. It was simply that he kept it well guarded and close to his chest. But oh, did his heart skip when he found his Pestilence. Cunning and sharp tongued and brilliant. Her red hair and green eyes brighter than any sunrise and sunset on any galaxy. She was stunning in beauty and wit. She ran circles around her clan, knew how to navigate any battle or threat against her people, slayed all those that stood in her way without even raising a sword.

Pestilence was a fallen star, a forgotten goddess, a queen of some noble, bygone bloodline. Oh, how Death wanted her. He would have reaped her soul then and there if only War hadn’t stayed his hand. War had wrapped himself around Death like a shroud and whispered one word in his ear: _Wait._

So Death waited with War at his side, a knowing grin on his Horsemen’s handsome face. The master strategist knew what was coming when Death could only guess. It came first with battles fought over hunting grounds, then farming grounds, then territory borders and trading routes. Death pressed his lips to War’s in gratitude, and they watched hand in hand as Famine swept through like a gentle wind and brought the people even further to their knees.

His Pestilence fought harder when all others gave up hope. She fought with everything she had until she couldn’t. The near constant battle left her clan without food and the bloat and rot of war brought with it sickness and infection. A fever took her brilliant mind in the night and even then she still fought tooth and nail to remain in life.

When she took his hand, Death brought his lips to Pestilence's forehead.

* * *

The world was ever growing and changing, but Death was no longer alone. He had his Horsemen.

* * *

Death sits on a bench in a small town. He contemplates the body he had borrowed for himself. The long stretch of legs in front of him, the muscled arms, the lean breadth of shoulders, the deft fingers, and the soft, disheveled hair casting playful shadows on the pavement under his sneakered feet. He wonders if God feels so awed with his creations. He wonders if God would dare be angry with Death for his squatting. Death snorts and is pleased with the sound.

God was over polite and vague. He also had a bad habit of popping his gum while he talked. He was the complete opposite of his son, actually. The Devil, well Lucifer, was smug as to be expected, but he was also sarcastic and had an easy smile. The other gods get lost in between, not for lack of presence, but for the distance of time. Death has met many. He has seen them all rise and fall. He will meet many more.  
  
Kali particularly stands out in his memory.

Death has a weakness for beauty and power. Kali is gorgeous, exotic, and deadly. She is also prideful and strong headed and pays no heed to any but her whims. She had a thought in her mind to make Death her own and to conquer the whole universe with him at her side and not just her sect.  
  
War had rectified her mistake, tore her limbs from her shoulders and made her eat them. Kali had overstepped her bounds in more ways than one. So she paid sacrifice to War. The universe was his playground not hers. And Death belonged at his side. For War, Famine, and Pestilence, were only allowed to touch Death or his reapers, but more especially, War was the only one who had any right, given or taken, to touch Death with any reverence or want.  
  
Maybe that's why Death allowed it. For he made War, but War did not bow or kneel or prostrate himself. He saw himself as a product of Death and nothing more. He was a part of Death. Death owned War but War, War owned Death too. With touches of his strong fingers, War was in possession of Death’s love and mind and body.

War could care less for Death’s power. It meant to him but an ends to be together for eternity. Maybe that's why Death had let War take him and claim him and him alone. Because War was not afraid to take and cherish and love. Human traits shared so easily. War had Death’s heart. Death had never thought to give it to another.

Death fell in love with War before he was willed into being. Death fell in love with the soul drenched in red gripping onto life. Death was greedier with his first Horseman than all the others. He desired to keep War, so Death kept him.

“There you are.”

Death looks up, away from his inner thoughts, and lets an easy smile grace the face of the body he now inhabits. The boy inside peacefully asleep stirs at the voice. Something warm tugs along Death’s gut that is mostly the same as his reaction. Death would recognize War in any shape, in any form. War also has the strangest knack for finding the perfect counterpart, or soulmate if you will, for whatever body Death borrows.

War stands before him in a body that looks so similar to the one he left so long ago on the hallowed grounds of an arena. Dark hair, fierce green-grey eyes, a face that should be carved in marble, a body made from hard work and effort. There is something just a little primal about it, just under the surface. A word rings out clearly in his mind: werewolf. The boy is ever so helpful, so intelligent, and so worthy of a break.

Death’s smile turns into a grin.

“Hello, Derek.”

The man sits next to Death, a strong arm resting easy against the back of the bench, thumb rubbing gently back and forth against a pale, freckled neck.

“Stiles.”

The sleeping boy almost wakes at the sound of the familiar drawl. War grins knowingly. The man inside the body he is in must have felt the same pull of yearning. Death soothes his internal companion. After what the boy has been through, he deserves rest. Death is not here to reap his carefully made and hard won family. Oh, no. Death is here to help him.

This little town is not as sleepy as it seems. Death had been called here often as of late. Death is curious about this little town. Anything that would draw him to it, anything that demands him to reap with his own hands, is something to pay attention to. He leans into the warm touch at his back, the strength at his side. He lets his senses stretch out in all directions.

The first time he had been called to reap a soul in this town, the soul he was to shepherd was kept by him instead. Laura was one of his most revered reapers, one of his most called upon. But the next soul Death himself reaped did not stay where he had placed it. Death was not pleased, so he had let War interfere for a time until the little town righted itself.

But it never truly did. It seemed that a darkness grew over the town. Over it, under it, within it. His reapers stayed busy. Then this fierce boy had been marked for Death. But Death never laid a hand on him. Because he refused to die. That Death had admired. That had Death curious.  

Something about this little town called to him. And that is when he saw it. It rarely happens, but when it does, it is rarely without a cause. His Pestilence and Famine appeared before him in human forms. Reincarnation of two souls so near and dear to Death himself? Death stayed and watched and reaped.

Death made a plan as he worked, as he watched this town shift and shake but refuse to topple over.

What most people do not understand is that Death, Death _loves_ humanity. His counterparts will die without the nuisances of man. He will lose the lives he created for the very few he deemed worthy, his family, his loved ones. (And the mere thought of the light of War’s eyes going out, extinguished forever even to him, makes Death’s heart tremble and ache.)

He will not see it snuffed out.

“Let’s begin.”

War’s grin is more blinding than the rays of the setting sun.

Again, Death stands and offers War his hand.


End file.
